Yeah! Take it!

I'm at Taraccino's Coffee in Ankeny. I had a beer earlier in the evening, or a cider, or some sort of bottled booze left by Krispy's wife. And I had this fantasy where the guy behind the counter smelled it on my breath, called the police, and I was cuffed while writing. As the cops lead me out the door by my elbows, I would lean over to the counter jockey and say, "We'll. You won't be getting anymore tips from me."

Yeah! Take it!